


That's a real sweet thought, Ford

by DandyDilettante



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (TV 1981)
Genre: Cake, Christmas Jumpers, Crack, Don't panic, Gen, Improbability Drive, Macro/Micro, Oblivious Arthur, Outer Space, Platonic Relationships, Tea, britishisms, giant, vogons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 02:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13180437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DandyDilettante/pseuds/DandyDilettante
Summary: Zaphod wants food porn fantasies.Ford wants money quickly.Arthur wants an easy life.But what they really need is someone who can fix a stolen space ship.





	That's a real sweet thought, Ford

**Author's Note:**

> Beware: spoilers if you haven't read the series.  
> Spoiling of the canon for everyone else.  
> This is un-beta'd so you are really taking your lives into your own hands here.  
> Share and enjoy or at least leave kudos. I hope this is as much fun to read as I had writing it!  
> Thanks

 

“C'mon Eddie, what’s the hold-up?”

“Hi there, Eddie the space-board computer here. Just checking that all the co-ordinates are plotted on the galactic charts for ya now fella.”

The oval screen outline gleamed on. A map flashed up, showing a beeping jigsaw of neon dots, crosses and circles, which meant absolutely zilch to the user.

“Alrighty!” The machine crooned, “Strap up tight, we’re gonna stream through the stardust in approximately thirty seconds. Oh by the way guys, I don't want to be a drag and a whole bundle of no fun but I must mention-”

“Yep okay,” cut off Ford, releasing the comms button from under his thumb. He rubbed his hands together excitedly, bouncing around to face the lingering stature of his long suffering friend. Still wearing his worn pyjamas and bathrobe, he sported an unhappy frown and a cross glare that had been burrowing holes in the back of Ford's skull for most of the entire time.

“I wish you would look it all up properly first, that's all,” mentioned Arthur grumpily. Ford put it down to, understandably, that he was still irritable about what was happening and had happened since the Earth’s unfortunate demise.

“Gotta save time Arthur. If we hyperspace to these few planets, write some pleasantly dull reviews and beam it off to the Guide, I can make a ton of money easy. Then we can go off to some proper planets and enjoy ourselves. Forget all this hard work.” He displayed his biggest joyful grin, eyes glittery with enthusiasm. Arthur knew Ford long enough, not to be fooled by this puppydog look.

“Ford, the last time you skimped on work, you got stuck on Earth and named after a car for fifteen years.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve learnt to skimp on the unnecessary research this time. Besides-” replied Ford, taking his friend gently by the arm, “-in a few hours, we can be at Querida Nine soaking up the rays and cocktails. Now hurry up Arthur, we've got places to be that we should have left already.”

“Any of them happen to be somewhere I can get a decent cup of tea?” Arthur asked himself despondently, following as Ford carried on ahead.

 

*~*~*

 

The Heart of Gold carried on its journey above the ionosphere, gliding so seamlessly that it made manoeuvring look terribly old-fashioned. Inside, the tuneful bleeping of hundreds of circuit boards and thrusters worked overtime, amplifying the acceleration rate to the maximum velocity. Light years began to zip past with every second as the improbability drive sprang into life, like Frankenstein’s monster on steroids.

At the probability of three to the power of nine hundred and seventy-two and rising, a moulting old dodo perched on an spinning office chair, slid on past as the ship made a sudden ease to the right; causing all off the buttons to fall off the control deck and transform into a multitude of jigsaw pieces, blackjacks and glass marbles.

Arthur doubled over one of the storage railings, feeling like an abandoned umbrella subject to a storm. His face turned a curdled shade of pale as he hung on tightly, eyes firmly squeezed shut.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever cope with this,” he began to utter, before giving a particularly pathetic groan as nausea somersaulted inside him like a bouncy castle.

The panelled walls of the ship groaned back with a worrying shudder as if they were being compressed inwards.

“How much longer is this going to take?” He asked louder to Ford, praising his thanks as his new-found tentacles fractured back into to his old arms again.

“You’ll be fine Arthur. Have you eaten anything to line your stomach? Any dry-roast peanuts or pork scratchings?” Asked Ford, who flopped back leisurely into the seat of a jelly-bean bean-bag.

Around them, the announcer calmly iterated more strings of numbers against and rising, calmingly familiar and stable in the midst of the surrounding chaos.

“No. We've run out of everything. Even scampi fries,” grumbled Arthur, “besides, I didn’t like the comments Zaphod kept making about peanuts and me belonging in a zoo. He called me monkey-man.”

“Ah that’s just his way of being affectionate,” said Ford, in quiet amusement at those old but timeless Earth-man jokes.

“Huh. The only thing he knows how to be affectionate to is his galaxy sized ego. Whoever said ‘two heads are better than one’ obviously didn’t have the dubious pleasure to meet _him_ ,” scowled Arthur.

“Hey, don't worry about it. Or anything at all… Just relax,” Ford coaxed in his soothingly reassuring way like cold treacle oozing down your neck and ruining your collar. “Get into the swing, we'll be there in no time.”

As if to dispute this, there was an abrupt metallic clang. They both found themselves seated in a clean bright tubular capsule, strapped in side by side, as the window beside them scrolled through beautiful exotic landscapes. The air conditioner quietly hummed away pleasantly to itself as the views transcended into the intense starry flecked space while the carriage hovered up along the planet’s asteroid belt.

“Oh-ho! Very nice, seems to be the Orbital Express,” exclaimed Ford, as he lounged back into the cushions, resting his hands behind his head; the built-in massagers gently pressing tiny soothing circles against his joints.

“Where are we?” Asked Arthur blearily looking round, clearly not used to being in first class.

Ford said it again but could see it didn't do any good. So he leaned closer for dramatic effect. “The finest luxury scenic liner,” he added helpfully, “Most decadent travel money can buy. Even better than the Skytanic or the Verreirian Humdingberg.”

But despite Ford's enthusiasm, Arthur's attention had dwindled away, leading Ford to wonder what could possibly be more interesting.

“Refreshments?” simply said a far-away voice.

Ford sat up straight just like Arthur. Peeking over the backs of the seats, he located the figure with the bountiful snack trolley bustling through, giving away cooing small talk and shiny, elegantly packaged goods.

“Tickets please,” echoed another interesting voice. Ford twisted round to locate the ticket inspector coming up the other way. Ford carried on twisting till he was sat right back in his seat. He hastily dug hands into his pockets. Empty.

“Oh Zarquon,” he muttered. He checked Arthur's pockets too, just in case. This was made much more difficult by Arthur flinching and trying to wrestle him off. Ford released their seat straps.

“Arthur, let’s get out of here.”

“What? Why?”

“Why not. Now come on,” demanded Ford, getting up and almost climbing over him in his hurry.

Arthur reluctantly stood, painfully aware of the few curious eyes watching. Ford hustled him on, before he started resisting.

“Ford,” he argued irritably, pulling away from the tightening grip on his arm, “can I just get a drink first?”

Ford shot a glance over to the drinks urn on the trolley.

 “No you can't. It's a mirage,” he answered, whispering as fast as he could form the syllables, “that's how they get you, you see. Mythos don't have fluid based drinks consistent to their planet, it's probably the pulp of the last person who didn't pay their fare. Now go,” he persisted, giving him another firm nudge.

“But where are we going?” Arthur hissed.

“Somewhere else,” Ford hissed back.

“Excuse me Sirs, would you like any snacks at all?” announced the luxurious figure up the aisle way, the trolley gliding silently forwards towards them.

Ford waved it off. “No, no thank you, although it all looks very nice.”

“Excuse me, are those chocolate biscuits?”

“Come on Arthur,” Ford interrupted, smiling a gritted smile, “think about your waist line and how you'd like to keep it.”

Ford then turned back to smile glassily at the lady.

The lady glassily smiled at Ford.

Arthur smiled longingly at the biscuits.

And Ford was forced to take the opportune moment there as it was. He pushed past, yanking Arthur’s wrist close as he pelted it to the far end of the aisle way. The raging screams and yells were left echoing behind; an audible vortex of consternation. The carpeted corridor they were running down flaked right out of floor and they found themselves disappearing off into the infinite darkness.

 

 *~*~*

 

A clear instruction announced, "Number seventy-two and rising."

The room whipped around in a blur of haze. Transformed in a blink, they both appeared in the middle of somewhere steamy and humid. Stifling mist and dense forest encompassed them, squawks of parakeets singing overhead and the strong scent of tropical fauna bloomed. In between them, there was a large pot bubbling atop a burning camp fire. The pot, on closer examination, looked suspiciously like that trolley urn. They both stared at each other, expectantly waiting for the other to check first. Ford gave in and pinged the lid off, his head vanishing into the raging torrent of steam.

“Nothing here but hot water,” Arthur heard him say with mild disappointment as he flung the lid back on.

“Right, okay that's it,” snapped Arthur. “I'm going back to bed. Wake me up when everything's back to normal.” He paced off, before stopping; determination fighting frustration on his face. He turned once to the left and once to the right, before disappearing into the thick, looming shrubbery.

Ford sat, humming an old galactic ditty as he stoked the fire with a stick. He heard his name echoing off in the distance.

“Yes, Arthur?” He asked.

“Which way are the resting cabins again?”

Ford began to get up, following the voice. “I'm not sure. Usually it’s the first door on the left but when in a rainforest, who knows?”

Arthur answered back, but not in the way he had intended to.

“I-arggh!”

Ford saw Arthur in the distance, clutching the back of his neck, spinning around wildly. He stooped to snatch up a small white ball, just as an identical one whizzed by his shoulder.

 “Whose doing that?!”  Arthur shouted, before storming off in the direction they were coming from.

Following after Arthur, the plantation opened up into a lush green expanse where the grass was neatly clipped and the opal sun weighed down like an overfilled water balloon.

“You apes!” Arthur yelled, flailing his arms angrily at the culprits; some bouncing monkeys in plus-fours and argyle sweaters who were in preparation in lining up another shot.

 “Arthur,” Ford called, catching up.

“When I'm through with you beasts, you'll wish you would have stayed up in the trees!”

“Arthur!”

“And golf is a terrible game anyway!”

“Arthur.” Ford's voice dropped to a low, wary pitch. “Whatever you do, don't turn around.”

“Pardon?” Arthur blurted as he turned around, and came face to fangs with a massive Bengal tiger. There was barely time to scream before the weighty paws of it had pounced heavily against his chest. He toppled backwards as time slowed; watching his life play over in that split second; remembering the pride when he had bought his new digital watch, the times he had managed to get it off with someone, the devastating view of Earth disintegrating before his very eyes, the mounting anxiety of whether he turned off the hot water in the spacio-cleansing pod this morning...

 

*~*~*

 

The ground splodged against him. He was surprised to find that sizable teeth and claws were not raking him into strips like he had supposed. Instead, he was very slowly sinking into a fine white quicksand. Ford stepped into view; standing over him, with a piece of sponge in hand, looking vaguely concerned. Arthur looked around before rolling his eyes and flopping back with a quiet moan.

The space had mutated again, plonking them on top of what looked to be like a slowly rotating Battenberg cake.

“This is getting ridiculous.” mumbled Arthur after Ford helped to wrench him out of the sticky ooze. “I feel like a wedding cake figurine.” He gave up trying to do anything practical and stood there, daring to defy the situation, his ankles already submerged in the cold squidgy marzipan. He crossed his arms, the wispy coating of sugar dust tickling his nose.

“Ford,” he whined bitterly, “Why cake? Why couldn’t it change into something nice for once, like one of those glittering up-market jazz bars in Kensington instead?”

Ford chewed thoughtfully on his piece of pink sponge. “Arthur, the question you really should be asking yourself is; would that situation be too _likely_ for the infinite improbability drive?”

“Not if it checked the state of my bank balance, it wouldn’t.” Muttered Arthur to himself as he plodded over, taking care to avoid slipping off into the black endless void.

Ford gave one of his well-rehearsed sympathetic little nods that seemed to help in moments like these.

The Heart of Gold storage bay reappeared around them and Ford grinned.

“There we are, nothing to worry about-“

A shrill fizzing noise pierced through. Ford's grin dropped.

Everything pitched black with an ear-splitting clunk, a blindingly bright flash before plunging back to darkness. Burning sparks of intense colour began to spurt through the air as the ground shifted violently with bone-knocking shudders. He began to smell smoke while thick storm clouds materialised overhead.

Usually, storms would be no problem for Ford, but this was an exception; as with every flicker, he found himself being bombarded by a load of falling Christmas jumpers. He flung up his hands to protect himself but the sheer volume of projectiles knocked him to the floor.

“Arthur!” He called out, cut off as the array of Santa Claus chunky knits continued. It was becoming increasingly clear that how many he chucked off, scores more replaced them. Before he had time to think, he was up to his neck in novelty garments.

“Probability four hundred thous- Probability four hundred thous- Probability four hundred thous-” The calming announcer smoothly stuttered, quickening each time.

“Ford! What the hell’s going on?!” Arthur’s panicked shrieks echoed, rebounding off the walls.  Ford couldn’t see. Dark shadows span in the brief flurries of light as jumper after jumper pelted down thick and fast and hard.

“Arthur, listen to me! For Zarquon’s sake! Tell Eddie to shut it off!” yelled Ford desperately. He struggled madly against the hypo-allergenic wool as everything began to go black. In the distance he could faintly hear the computerised tone of the comms clicking online and Arthur speaking; his voice rising like a kettle boiling.

Coincidentally, while thinking about being in hot water, Ford swore he could hear the distant sound of water cascading... or was that the crackle of Betelgeusian fluid rushing in his auditory canal. He wasn’t quite sure which. In the end, he had more important things to worry about, such as losing the battle with consciousness.

“Eddie, this is an emergency! What? Yes, good evening Eddie. Listen, no I’m not very well thank you. Turn the improbability drive off! ... What do you mean you’re sorry?! ... Why not? .... Then put me through to Zaphod ... Look I don’t care, this is an emergency! Crisis, disaster, trouble ahead, danger, do you understand me?... Zaphod? Zaphod! Turn off the drive! No, Ford can’t come to the videophone right now; he's a little bit tied up at the moment ... Look … Look ... Look you two-headed monstrosity; don’t call me a primitive monkey-man who knows nothing about space travel. I _know_ I don’t know anything about space travel but what I do know is that it’s out of control. If you don’t turn it off, it’s not just your semi-cousin at stake; it’s you, me, us, _everyone_ who’s in trouble here!”

 

*~*~*

 

Ford hazily opened his eyes and wondered what time it was, so he could roll over and sleep through it. There was no more dull thuds of clothing overhead, no more familiar whirring from the ships mainframe, only the vague tinkling of ‘Jingle Bells’ somewhere off to his left side. Hazarding a guess that he was all right, he sat up softly in the woollen cavern of the winter wonderland. Everything smelt like brandy pudding and sugar canes. He had to admit that, although it was a very cosy and comfy place to be, it was just the small things that were a problem, such as being slowly asphyxiated to death.

He spat to find the way out, leaving a line of drool down his cheek. Taking deep breaths, he began to scramble up, the fabric ruffling and bunching as he pushed through. The cloth gave without too much resistance, but he found it difficult to get a solid grip as he tunnelled his way upwards. He flinched back when a slight touch set off the pulsating red nose from a demonic looking reindeer pattern, hidden within the recesses. He gave it an extra hard kick on the way up but it didn’t sound any better. He pulled and pushed on as sleeves snagged, coiled and intertwined round his limbs; knotting together, binding like rope. Breathing became heavier and heavier while his head became lighter and lighter. Suddenly, everything just above his head swept away and light dazzled brightly from out of nowhere. He was gripped under each arm and felt himself hoisted out of the festive nightmare to freedom; sweet, jumperless freedom!

He sat up, coughing up fluff, before pulling tangles of yarn out of his hair. The location he found himself in had altered yet again. He took a moment to familiarise himself, nervously waiting for something else to happen, but nothing suggested the hint of changing.

Nothing, not one jot, zippo.

Nothing at all.

It rather unnerved him. At least being atop the jumper hill in the middle of an old boat wasn't so bad. It idled adrift on a dark murky sea, similar to that of Earth’s. The wall and ceilings of the storage bay merged together, creating a cloudless panoramic sky of twilight indigo. Only a hint of the computer wreckage remained as occasional sparks littered across the sky like lost comets. He breathed in the sea air; not salty but sweet. Ford felt content to stay put, observing the rolling waves cresting and breaking in the dirty brown waters. It reminded him fondly of the hours sitting on the park benches by the Thames, waiting for the hint of a passing spaceship. How pleasantly mind-numbingly dull, thought Ford.

This was until he noticed the rather large leg lying beside him, which stretched past to a slippered foot dangling off the bow. He recognised those striped pyjamas anywhere. But of all things, he still couldn't quite believe it. He rotated around to take a look at the owner who sat awkwardly pressed up against the stern.  

Startled, he gave an unaccustomedly blink. Some people have all the luck and those people weren’t Arthur.

Even sitting up on top of the pile of clothes, Ford wasn't quite high enough to reach his eye level so Ford stood up to make it easier. Having been detected, Arthur wrapped his dressing gown closer around him self-consciously. All in all, he looked very uncomfortable cramped up like that, but unfortunately there was nowhere else for him to go.

“Holy Zarquon.” Ford uttered before he could stop himself. Not a lot tended to surprise him anymore but this was entirely unexpected. He suppressed his hysterics. He didn’t want to make it any worse by giggling; he wouldn't hear the end of it otherwise. Therefore, he tried for a compassionate expression which fit him as perfectly as a round peg in a square hole.

“Arthur, that drive really has done a number on you, hasn’t it?” he stated to the ashen faced Earth-man.

_The number it had done in question was in fact forty-two, although neither person had realised this. Coincidentally, forty-two was the answer to the question of life, the universe and everything to which Arthur was crucial to the meaning of. Hence why they were on the run from a herd of wealthy alien mice, but that is another story altogether..._

“Are you sure that it’s not you that’s-?”

“ - Nope I'm pretty sure it’s not me.” Answered Ford, feeling himself for any changes. He glanced back up, his neck giving a click for its efforts.

“I was afraid you might say that.” Said Arthur very unhappily. He gave a defeated little whimper at his own misfortune, his long arms crossed and folded, and crossed again if he possibly could've. He gazed out towards the skyline with worry lines settling naturally on his hounded features, hoping silently for the sea to swallow him up.

“Come on Arthur. You’re making too much of a fuss over this,” attempted to console Ford, reaching over and firmly patting the expanse that was Arthur’s knee. “It's not that bad. Better one big you then a hundred little yous. Or dead,” he added cheerily, “It’s a step up from that.”

“At least if I was dead, people wouldn't be able to see me like this.” Arthur mused sullenly, refusing to move on to something much more helpful.

“- Or we could just leave it! Face it Arthur, out here past the Milky Way it’s very rare, almost non-existent, for people to meet an Earthman. You could just _pretend_ that it’s normal for you to be this way. Honestly, no-one would know the difference.”

“I’d know the difference Ford.” exclaimed Arthur, thumping a car sized hand to his chest.  He slumped back, gazing out again as his inner turmoil subsided. “I was happy with my lot. Well most of it.” He corrected himself. “But I could do everything at six foot that I could have ever wanted to do. Adding any more on just seems rather silly.”

Ford elbowed him to get his attention. “Hey, don't knock it. I have to go all the way to the planet Chiisana to act like that and even then someone else might show up and spoil it all.”

Arthur shook his head. “I’m sorry Ford but I liked things the way they were.”

Ford shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “Too sentimental, that’s your trouble. I remember what my greatest grandmother said to me. ‘Better being forty feet then having forty feet.’ The prices of shoes for a start.”

“You can tell your great grandmother that she has too much time on her hands.”

“Ah, hands! Now having forty hands would be a different matter entirely. Just ask a Jatravartid. ”

Arthur went to nudge him with a finger in an effort to shut him up. Ford anticipated this and dodged, almost succeeding. Clipping the knuckle, he stumbled to the floor. As he quickly propped himself upright, he gave a hard attentive look around the boat again. Something didn't sit right. He stroked it with his fingertips, smoothing out the crinkles in the corrugated card-stock before getting up.

“What are you doing?” Asked Arthur, watching Ford vault over his leg as curiosity got the better of him.

“Card?” Pondered Ford aloud, kneeling and rocking back up on his heels, refolding a loose corner before confirming. “It's made out of card.”

“I know. I was worried too but look-” he gave it a brief but hefty stomp. The boat bobbed up and down like a rubber duck, but stayed afloat as Ford felt himself wobble with the floor. “As seaworthy as any other boat I’ve ever been in,” remarked Arthur, ”Ford. You can let go of me now.”

Ford slowly released his tight grip on Arthur as his heartbeat started to settle. He unclenched his square-on frown and breathed shakily. “Please don't do that again.”

“Sorry, I'm not used to this. But I bet this is all right for you though, Ford. I suppose you’ve probably had much worse things happen when you’ve travelled far and wide across the galaxies.”

Ford sighed longingly, looking away to watch the sea ebb and flow before returning his strong insistent stare towards the oblivious Earthling. “Arthur.” He said earnestly, his starry eyes almost hypnotic in the way they drew you in. “We’ve known each other for quite a while now and I consider you a friend. In all that time, did I ever mention that I’m a teensy bit afraid of water?”

“Oh.”

“...and heights?”

“Right, no.” Said Arthur. “Probably not the best place for you to be then.”

“No, it’s not ideal.” agreed Ford, forcing a tight lipped smile.

“But I don't understand...Why haven't I changed back yet? Is there a way to change me back? Ford, tell me there’s a way to change me back.”

“There’s a way to change me back.” Grinned Ford on cue.

“Really? ... Oh hah, yes, very funny, do you actually know?”

“It’s possible. I’m still trying to figure it all out.” Said Ford, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, leaning back against Arthur's arm. “It seems that the drive stopped before it had restored to normality. Unless this is normality now but in another universe.” Ford progressed on before Arthur could retaliate. “Now if I knew anything about cyber electronic processors, I would have said that it has glitched. But that's out of the question.” Ford cocked his head to the side. “But then that _is_ highly improbable.” He cocked his head back. “But then again-”

Arthur groaned. “I think I feel a headache coming on... Does that mean the ship's – sorry the drive – is broken then?”

Ford scoffed, rolling his eyes languidly. “Arthur, you can’t just _break_ a drive. It’s run by super advanced Syrius Cybernetic computers, the best, the _cutting edge_ of interstellar space travel. And as you well know, if you can’t put your trust in new technology then... uh.... you can place your trust in that you’ve wasted a lot of money.”

Arthur brushed a hand over his head in thought. “I don't suppose there is an instruction manual hanging around in a cupboard or lost down the back of a sofa is there?”

“Possibly, if it wasn’t such a brand new one-of-a-kind system.” Ford's face lit up as he slapped his hands together. “Wait a minute. The guide, Arthur, the guide! Have you got it?”

Arthur checked his pockets and shook his head.

“Never mind, I do. Here! Oh, I forgot to say 'Catch' didn’t I?” As a crack and a splash carried the little electronic box to the muddy depths with a few bubbles of farewell.

After a few minutes of stunned silence, on the edges of hearing, they could hear a husky voice swearing to some automated dialogue. Next there was a heavy sound of an invisible door being forced to slide seamlessly open and then finally a silhouette of Zaphod Beeblebrox, the man himself, standing dead centre in the dark rectangular doorway that hovered above the horizon line.

“Glad to be of service.” Purred the doorway tinnily.

“Oh shut up!” Snarled Zaphod.

Striding out, he flicked a greeting salute before vanishing with a splash below. He re-emerged, spluttering and after a few false starts, Zaphod finally managed to get the hang of a swimming technique. With one head underwater and the other one up like a periscope, he made his way over to the vessel, his third arm gesticulating frantically to the crew.

“Hey Zaphod, glad you could drop in.” Welcomed Ford, taking him by a forearm, as he helped Arthur hitch him on-board by the velvet overcoat.

“Holy Zarquon! Sheesh!” Zaphod spat, combing his dripping hair back with his fingers. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever soaked in and I’ve been to the fusion lounges in AlphaX with the Hraf-Hrafys. Ugh! Nastier than a dirty pint of old Janx, Gargleblaster and grease spill. Bleech! Uncool man, uncool.”  He quickly recovered his laidback composure; albeit a dripping, sodden composure pulled off with infinite style. “So Ford! Hey, how's it going?” He asked, resting an arm on his dry shoulders.

“Okay. Yeah, not too bad, considering.” Said Ford, passing him a Christmas jumper to wipe himself off with. “Is everyone alright? Any idea what’s up with the ship?”

“Yeah man. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve stalled out. The engine, baby, the drive, everything in between. It’s all blown man.” He threw his arms up at the unblinking Ford. “It’s Total Belgium!”

“So what are we supposed to do now? Can you give the ship a check-up or something?”

He shrugged it off with sprightly indifference, finding the garish Christmas jumpers much more interesting than this conversation. “Yah, that's a real sweet thought Ford but I’m no mechanic, and this just isn't any kind of engine ya dig? Anyways, you almost twisted one of my arms off so we could coast out here to the middle of nowhere. Man, you saying that you didn't check the condition before your trip? Rookie mistake, kiddo.“

Ford hummed through tightening teeth. “You don't know anything then? Nothing? Even though you’re kinda responsible for this ship now, you never thought to read up on it?”

“Hey that’s not improbable kid, It’s practically impossible.” Zaphod chuckled as Ford felt his patience leaving, taking his temper and dignity with it. “Anyway sit back and chill,” giving Ford's shoulder a friendly squeeze, “Eddie and the computers are sorting out all the heavy stuff so we don't have to.”

“I’m fine by the way.” Arthur announced.

“Zaphod, the computers are part of the problem; they’re all hard wired into the same mainframe, they're going to be affected too. Aren’t you supposed to be fixing it, y’know manually? Especially as drifting in space with the military, the police, the Vogons and everything else whose after us might be seen as, y’know, kinda dangerous?”

“Whoa whoa hey now.... So uh, hey monkey-man!” said Zaphod, spinning on his heel and stepping up towards Arthur. He put his hands on his hips, and whistled low like a builder surveying a bad job. “Big problem huh?”

“You mean me...or the ship?” Questioned Arthur, unsure and a little bit more than suspicious.

“Another thing,” Ford demanded to Zaphod’s nearest head, “Why didn’t Arthur have the privileges to shut down the system?”

“Zowee!” He threw his hands up. “What is this? Question time?! We all came to an agreement about it last week. Restricted access Ford. You were there.”

Ford stared blankly, which rapidly gave way to sheepishness. “Oh... Oh yeah, right. I forgot about that.” He mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

“What? What do you mean _we_ all? Why?” Arthur snapped up crossly, completely failing to hide the offence in his tone.

Zaphod held out a hand to keep balance as the boat rocked. “So, you wouldn’t do anything stupid like turn off the ships mainframe. Just stay cool yeah? “

Arthur passed a look of disbelief and before he could say some more colourful and varied things, a calmer sweeter voice lilted out across the water. “Hey, hi, room for one more?”

Trillian waved in the dim distance, cool, casual and immaculate as always, the ship was slowly paddled aside the levitating doorway.

“All aboard.” Announced Ford as he took her by the arm and eased her up onto the deck.

“Thanks guys.” She beamed as they shifted up and made room for her. The boat was becoming rather crowded.

“So what’s the buzz baby?” Queried Zaphod.

She inhaled deeply. “Huh, where do I start? The bridge is covered in steam, jam and cream, and the engine is totally kaput.”

“Jam and cream?” repeated Arthur, confused.

“Yeah-huh. At first I thought it was just one of Zaphod's 'Fondled French Fancies' parties until I realised that none of the viviscreens were functioning. Bit of a major problem.” Remarked Trillian, while Zaphod sported a mischievous grin, far away with his own delectable memories.

“So,” she continued, looking round, “this cabin is totally ruined too huh?”

“Just think of it as an on-board swimming pool.” teased Zaphod, wiggling all of his eyebrows with his indefinable charm.

Ford sighed, his hand sliding down his face. “Do you know how to fix this mess?”

She pondered, putting her hands on her hips, focusing on the crack in the ceiling that was still spitting crackles of rainbow across the sky. She shook her head, sighing. “I’ve got an honours degree in Astrology and Mathematics, not in Spaceship Engineering. “ She took out the familiar book from her pocket and flicked on the guide which directed her to the manual. A chirpy little voice popped up. “For access to troubleshooting, please make sure you are connected to an online source. Share and enjoy!” They all groaned.

_The wholly remarkable book ‘The Encyclopaedia Galactica' has this to say about troubleshooting the drives of ships such as ‘The Heart of Gold’. For a start, as a relatively recent, one-of-a-kind, state-of-the-art interstellar vessel, it is highly improbable to have any faults. Improbable to the power of thirteen thousand, two hundred and seventy-three to be precise. However, the honest and helpful company's official clause states that If you damage it, you should have looked after it better. That’s one of your faults, not theirs._

_For further information, complaints or enquiries; The Vogons will take care of all your needs in the Complaints and Customer Service Division._

_Applications and/or forms are available from your nearest Alpha-Centuri centre circulating five hundred light-years from wherever you happen to be. Additionally the Policeforce of Interspacial Galactical Solarsystems (PIGS) have issued a statement to incline that they are most interested to help assist if you do indeed encounter such problems, especially on the ship known as 'The Heart of Gold' and would politely request for you to come forward immediately to arrange and ensure a swift execution of the issue._

She snapped it shut as its message looped.

“Okay, so what about getting an engineer?” Piped up Arthur. “Surely someone would be able to advise.”

“Sure yeah, call someone out to a stolen spaceship. Yeah, that's great genius,” snapped Zaphod, “you realise this ship is hot stuff, right? It’s so hot we could centre a whole new solar system around it!”

“Enough guys! This leaves us one thing to do. Personally it might be a worse idea than Arthur's but were pretty limited on our feasible options here. Marvin!” Trillian called.

Into the rectangle clanked the robot caked in cake, shoulders seemingly slouched in its metal frames, carrying a limp mop in his electronic arms.

“Hello Marvin, we’ve got a problem.”

“You think you’ve got problems...” Murmured the machine dejectedly as it wiped off the jam sticking up his diodes.

“Look metal-head, can you sort it out?”

“I could.” He mentioned monotonously. Marvin then stumbled out grumbling as the door shut behind him.

“Wait! Does that mean you will? Or... Hey! Cleaning up is not the priority right now Marvin! Great, well that’s that then.” Sighed Trillian. She tapped her foot impatiently, tutting at the situation. Her eyes fixed up on Arthur’s, the ideas forming in her head. “Arthur, you seem very tall all of a sudden. Could you reach up to where the sparks are please and check out the damage to the main computer circuits.”

“What? You mean you want me to go all the way up there?” Arthur asked, gaping up to the square hatch far up in the distance, where the sparks still frizzled out like party streamers that just wouldn’t call it a night.

“Yeah-huh.”

He looked again then back to them. He gave a disapproving hum. “No, I'd rather not.”

Zaphod growled “Is the air that thin up there or...” Trillian nudged a sharp elbow into his ribs. “Aah, I mean uh... Yeah. Yeah you have to, kid.”

 “Come on Arthur-”

“No, I'd be no help at all. I wouldn't know what I would be looking at. Sorry.” He protested, trying to shift away from the epicentre of all the stares and causing slight vibrations to shake the deck underfoot.

“It'll be fine. You can pick up Zaphod,” Trillian planned, “and-”

“-Hey no-one's picking me up unless they're the triple breasted whore from Erotica 5.”

“Okay, Ford then, -”

“Nah. Heights,” Interjected Ford, “It’s a thing for me now.”

Trilian persisted. “Trust me Arthur, if there was any other way we'd have done it already. No one else can get up there easily.”

“I'd rather stay here and wait it out.” Insisted Arthur. “Being on a boat's not so bad. I used to fancy it when I was younger when I walked past the barges on the canals.”

“I can't think of what I'd least like to hear; us singing sea shanties or listening to Vogon poems when they catch up with us.” Grumbled Zaphod, his other head agreeing.

“And I for one don't want to spend the rest of my life in between your legs.” Trillian snapped in annoyance.

Arthur went a shade of crimson as he quibbled, attempting to think of something appropriate to say. “Oh, all right.” He said finally. “You've made your point. Clear the way then.”

Ford and the others backed away, bracing against the sides of the boat to make room as Arthur's horizontal blue lined pyjamas turned vertical. With remarkable balance, he stood up high, feeling out for the catch as his long fingers brushed against the invisible ceiling. A 'Scoon' sound echoed as the invisible door panels slid open, releasing a multitude of sparks and raw energy, hissing and crackling away in every direction.

“What can you see up there?” Ford shouted, hands cupped round his mouth.

As the last dribble of sparks died out revealing a square of darkness, Arthur reluctantly peered inside. “Nothing much. Bits of machinery, wires, half a roll of duct tape and some empty containers.”

“Containers?” Asked Ford, confused.

Arthur shuffled half a step back to dodge a few rogue sparks trickling out. The heel of his ankle colliding with the railing.

 “Yes...containarrrgh!” The cry of alarm and windmill of flailing arms were the warning as Arthur teetered before plunging into the ocean. The boat lurched to one side, nearly capsizing, as the edge briefly met the cusp of the sea before rocking back. Everyone hung on in a mixture of limbs as the waves crashed over them.

Ford stumbled up knees first, arms clasped against the side, searching out and calling Arthur's name. The sea levelled out in moments before the emergence of a thrashing Arthur several hundred yards away.

It was unusual and it made him stop and ponder on it. Ford had expected Arthur to be most upset, yet he looked rather happy despite his initial floundering shock and surprise. This was a puzzling conundrum for Ford, who thought he knew Arthur so well he could put money on his predictable nuances. Eventually the lightning bolt moment struck him when he pieced the puzzle together.

Leaning over and hooking an arm against the railing for leverage, he reached his fingers out to test his theory. He stretched out his fingertips just enough to graze over the gritty barnacles on the hull. He hauled himself back up and gave them a suck. That confirmed it. It was coated in crystallised sugar. He finally understood what the oddity was with the nautical picture that the improbability drive had conjured up. Until now, he hadn't been able to put a finger on it.

The seawater he noted was lukewarm tea, the sea spray and the lapping surf was found to be semi skimmed; churning and stirring everything through. He even hazarded a guess that the full moon above could be biscuit based.

From his own leisurely reading on the guide about the improbability drive, it suddenly made perfect sense. The empty jars must mean that the strong Brownian Motion Producer needs topping up, say a nice pot of tea. This was the drives way of informing them what the problem was. Obviously, aside from the multiple warnings from Eddie and the engine light they had been ignoring for the past million miles.

And Ford hadn’t seen Arthur this happy since... well since before the Earth exploded into tiny bits of space rubble. Ford gave a smile. Good on him, he thought. Cocktails on Querida 9 could wait. A good cup of tea and everything will turn out right in the end for everyone. That's what he'd been told anyway.


End file.
